


hazy head of mine

by kiranxrys



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Accidental Wedding, Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e10 Our Man Bashir, Prompt: Accidental Marriage/Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26214052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiranxrys/pseuds/kiranxrys
Summary: Julian blames Odo. If it wasn't for him, Lwaxana Troi never would've come to Deep Space 9, and he never would've have ended up accidentally marrying one of his best friends.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 18
Kudos: 152
Collections: Star Trek Bingo Summer 2020





	hazy head of mine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Star Trek Bingo Summer 2020 event.
> 
> This fic takes place post-Our Man Bashir, just after Homefront/Paradise Lost with a celebration of the not-fall of the Federation. Lwaxana Troi, darling, this one goes out to you. 
> 
> Fic title from Medicine by The 1975.

It’s all Odo’s fault, really. If it hadn’t been for his unique status as known goo man of the Alpha Quadrant, none of this would’ve happened. Julian might go find him to complain about it if he didn’t think he would just end up embarrassing himself further in front of Quark’s patrons. Besides, wherever Odo is, Lwaxana Troi is probably there too. And she is just about the second last person in the universe he wants to be talking to right now.

He has no idea what time it is. One, two maybe in the morning. The party is still in full force – not a rare occurrence for a place like Quark’s, but it’s unusual to see so many Starfleet and Bajoran Militia officers up so late, and so drunk. Sisko gave them all the morning off tomorrow – no, _today –_ as a celebration of the fact the total collapse of the Federation as they know it was narrowly avoided this week. Julian is really, _really_ wishing he hadn’t. Tonight is a disaster on an apocalyptic scale.

He’s had his fair share of honest-to-God social catastrophes in his time. Not so many after graduating Starfleet Medical and coming to Deep Space 9, where he suddenly had to be an important and serious CMO who set a good example for his staff, but still enough to be getting on with. Never, _never_ has anything happened on such an astronomically humiliating level as this.

The ring is a dead weight on his left hand. He _should_ take it off. It’s not like it means anything, at least not to the person who put it there. It’s a… a pity ring. And what could possibly be worse than that? They didn’t sign any forms, didn’t make it official. He’d be willing to just try to forget the whole thing, mark it as a minor blip and move on, if not for the fact he knows he made it horribly obvious that in his idiot, alcohol-addled brain, it was _not_ a joke.

He’s at that stage of drunkenness where he’s not loopy or laughing or falling all over the place, but everything is still a little bit fuzzy, and it’s making it hard for him to focus on what he should do. He could try talking it through, though, what the hell is he supposed to say? _What a quirky and funny thing for us to do, please ignore the fact I'm obviously sort of in love with you, see you at lunch tomorrow?_ He catches sight of his reflection in a nearby metal pillar, face distorted by the curves of the scuffed silver, body reduced to the black and white patches of his tuxedo. “Julian Bashir,” he mutters, poking at his own face in the mirrored surface, “you are the _stupidest_ person in the entire Alpha Quadrant. No, scratch that, the entire _universe.”_

“Who’s stupid?”

He nearly jumps right out of his skin, but the alcohol restricts him to a kind of awkward jolt instead, one that trips him up as he spins around and sends him sliding down into an empty seat.

“Oh, hello,” he says, blinking. “Didn’t see you there.”

Jadzia raises an eyebrow at him from her place on the other side of the table, sitting on a bench with something red and vaguely sentient curled up half in her lap. Kira. The Major seems on the verge of sleep, mumbling to herself to quietly it’s impossible to hear. One of Jadzia’s hands runs over her fluffy red curls of hair, almost soothing.

“Is she all right?” Julian asks with a frown, trying to lean over to get a better look.

“M’fine!” Kira says loudly. She cracks open a single eye, looks Julian up and down over the rim of the table and closes it again. “What’s he done this time? And what’s with the suit?”

“Who says I’ve done anything?”

“You look like you’ve done _something,”_ Jadzia points out, and her eyes are very evidently drawn to the ring on Julian’s hand. It’s a piece of basic silver costume jewellery, a simple band engraved with a kind of fine floral pattern. He thinks he got it from one of the Dabo girls – Kati, maybe. He can still feel cool fingers holding his hand as the ring was slipped on, surprisingly delicate and skilled despite the fact both of them were close to keeling over where they stood, swaying on their feet. He looked up and saw sharp blue eyes and smiled widely, close to manic laughter from the pure, uncontrolled joy mounting in his chest, and for a brief moment he truly believed… he truly believed…

Julian groans and slumps over, burying his face in his arms. “Jadzia, I’m an idiot. And I’m- I’m going to _kill_ Odo.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Kira mutters from beneath the table.

“Julian, unless Odo dragged upstairs by the collar of your uniform and forced you to say _I do,_ I don’t think he can be blamed for whatever… this is,” Jadzia says. She’s doing a very poor job at hiding her smile.

“This is _not_ funny!” he protests. “This is a disaster! A calamity! A… a…”

“All right, there’s no need to pull out the entire Federation standard thesaurus,” Jadzia interrupts quickly. “Tell me, what are we dealing with here? Accidental marriage to a stranger? To one of your staff? A time-travelling godlike entity? I’m just going to assume that’s what the uh, ring is about.”

His brow creases as he tries to process her words. “W-what? No, no it’s _so_ much worse than that. I’ve ruined _everything,_ Jadzia, it’s- it’s all over for me now. You wouldn’t even believe, I… And oh my God, I think one of the admirals was there, so my career is probably down the drain too.” He breaks off, staring down at the ring on his hand. He can’t work out why he hasn’t just taken it off yet. _You know why._ Doctor Julian Bashir is without a doubt the biggest moron this side of the wormhole.

“Did Lwaxana do it?”

“That woman,” Julian says, latching on, “is a _menace._ Every time she comes here, something goes wrong. When she said she was staying for a while, I should’ve known, I… I should’ve locked myself in my quarters and stayed there until she left again. I could just _tell_ something like this was going to happen.”

“Do you want to actually explain what you’re talking about?” Jadzia asks. She picks up her glass and takes a nonchalant sip of what looks like some type of fancy dessert wine. Doesn’t she realise they’re in a crisis? Or, Julian is, to be more specific. He is in a crisis of an order up until now unseen in its magnitude.

“It’s too embarrassing,” he mumbles.

“Suit yourself,” she says. “But if you want help, I need the details.”

“Nothing can fix this,” he replies glumly, raising his eyes to look up into the dark void of the ceiling above. “I told you, Jadzia. I’m finished.”

“Cheer up, Doctor,” he hears from behind and someone reaches past him to pick up a pair of abandoned tankards from the table. “I hear it was a lovely ceremony.”

“Shut up, Quark,” he says.

Quark laughs – clearly, he finds this amusing and not concerning at all. “Now, there’s no need to be so rude. Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts? Mrs Troi told me she’s _never_ seen a happier couple.”

“Julian, _explain,”_ Jadzia demands.

“You know,” Quark continues, ignoring Julian’s very pointed glare. “I’m honestly amazed I never noticed it before. I mean, you’re a fair catch, Doctor, if I do say so myself. And I know you might’ve saved his life a couple of times, so on and so on, but when you and Leeta got together, I thought to myself – that’s the one. I was already halfway through planning for a Quark’s wedding for your doomed marriage, and then you go off and marry that damned Cardassian _tailor_ instead.” He laughs again. “But you know what they say: Rule of Acquisition number a hundred and twelve – never have sex with the boss’ sister.”

Julian wonders whether he’s still too drunk, because that didn’t sound right. “What? The hell does that have to do with anything?”

Quark shrugs. “Eh, it’s a metaphor.”

“Wh…” But Quark is already gone, off to hawk down some bored-looking visiting officers and direct them towards a Dabo table.

“Julian.”

He can’t bring himself to make eye contact with Jadzia and opts for reburying his face in the crook of his elbow. “Yes?”

“Did you seriously get married to Garak?” He can hear her struggling to contain a laugh.

 _“Garak?”_ comes Kira’s horrified query, muffled by Jadzia’s lap and the wall of tabletop between. “You’ve got to be joking!”

Julian feels such a sudden wave of misery, he could almost cry. Definitely still drunk. And definitely still in love, too, as deeply unfortunate as that little pinprick of truth might be. “I only wish I was,” he admits. God, he really wishes he was.

*

_Several hours earlier_

It starts with the bloody kanar. Julian should know better, he really should. He’s already had two beers with Miles, a shot of Quark’s cheapest tequila with Jadzia and half a glass of lemonade with Jake and Nog. The soft drink may not have contributed much to his general drunkenness, but it certainly isn’t helping with the nausea. He stumbles his way through the throng of people to the bar, making it up as he goes along. He keeps misjudging every second step and swaying around instead of walking. Someone bumps into him and he mutters an apology.

“Ah, Doctor!”

“Huh?” He turns around a bit too quickly and almost falls over, grabbing the counter for support. It’s there that he finds himself staring right into the sharp blue eyes of one Elim Garak, _far_ too close comfort. In fact, if he leaned forward just a bit further, their noses would almost be touching. Garak’s face is ever so slightly slack, his lips parted as he takes a sip of the sickly, syrup-like liquid in his glass. Julian could’ve _sworn_ someone else was sitting on that barstool when he was on his way over.

“You weren’t there a moment ago,” he says, frowning.

“I-I _assure_ you, my dear doctor, I was,” Garak objects. _“You_ were simply too inebriated to notice.”

“Ha!” The group of jostling Bajoran engineers beside them cheer and Julian is forced to lean into Garak’s side to avoid the onslaught flailing elbows – the _only_ reason for abandoning personal space, of course. “I’m not- _inebriated,_ Garak,” he replies loudly. “And what the hell are _you_ doing here?”

“Is a man not allowed to drink in a public bar without criticism, these days?” Garak asks, addressing the question to the room at large, though nobody seems to hear him.

Julian is near enough to smell Garak’s cologne. “No, but you _never_ come to Quark’s. You told me it was… that everyone here was a latinum-obsessed _heathen,_ and you wanted no part in it.” He waves down one of the bartenders. “Hey, I’ll have uh- oh, one of whatever he’s having,” he requests, nodding his head in Garak’s direction.

Garak looks sceptical, eyeing his own glass uncertainly. “Are you _quite_ sure, Doctor? I can’t imagine kanar would be appreciated by your _refined_ pallet.”

But the harried-looking bartender is already setting down a glass of the dark drink before him, scuttling off to aid another patron the moment Julian’s thumb has scanned through for payment. He picks it up and examines it with interest, wondering vaguely how strong Cardassians like their alcohol. _Only really one way to find out._ “Well, down the hatch then,” he announces. Garak huffs in indignant disbelief as he tips his head back and drinks the kanar all in one go, cringing at its oversweet taste and equally potent bitter undertone. “God, that packs a punch, doesn’t it?” He devolves into a fit of coughing.

 _“That,”_ Garak says, “would have been considered _highly_ offensive, were you on Cardassia.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, Garak,” he replies, struggling to catch his breath, “we’re not on _Cardassia.”_

“Yes. An unfortunate business.”

Julian squints, trying to make out Garak’s features more clearly. There’s something… _odd_ about him, tonight, and it’s not just that he seems as drunk as Julian is and the weirdness of him choosing Quark’s as a lurking ground. Something Julian can’t quite place, something… “Is that why you’re here?” he’s asking all of a sudden. “Are you missing Cardassia?”

“If only,” Garak answers. “Would it be so hard to believe I am simply here for a- a _good time?”_

It’s difficult to tell whether he meant that sarcastically or not. “Yes,” he says, “it would be. Now, what’s the matter with you, Garak? The last time I saw you sitting here like this was er… well, it was when…” He flounders for the words stuck somewhere in the back of his brain, all too aware of Garak’s needling gaze sticking pins up the back of his neck like a hot flush. What was he trying to say again? Something about, Garak, being here, and… “You’re drunk too,” he states eventually, noticing Garak’s slight list to the side.

“A very astute observation, my dear doctor,” Garak remarks, sipping again from his own kanar with a sort of deprecated chuckle.

Julian is beginning to get uncomfortable standing still at this awkward angle, but there’s nowhere else to go – the only seat available to him would Garak’s lap, and somehow, that just doesn’t seem appropriate right now. Maybe they should go outside, but then, there’s no party outside. He _is_ enjoying the party. Garak doesn’t seem to be, though. “Why are you here, you know… alone?” _That’s rude, Julian._ Damn, who walks up to someone drinking by themselves and demands an excuse for solitude? He really shouldn’t have had that last shot with Jadzia-

“And who else, exactly, do you expect me to _mingle_ with at one of these little events?” Garak asks.

“So you _are_ here for the party, then?”

“Oh yes,” Garak proclaims. “Oh, Doctor, I’m simply overjoyed that the Federation lives to spread its saccharine dogma throughout the quadrant another day! A marvellous achievement on all your parts.”

This is all getting very confusing. “Well, Sisko and Odo did most of the hard work exposing the plot,” he says. “Speaking of, aren’t you and Odo friends? I’m sure I saw him _somewhere_ around here – you could’ve mingled with him.”

“I’m afraid the dear Constable is rather tied up dealing with our most _charming_ visitor to the station just now.”

“Lwaxana,” Julian mutters darkly. Not that he has anything against Mrs Troi – she’s very friendly and has a thousand different stories to share – but things always start to go array when she’s on Deep Space 9. The station has been her home for several weeks now and there’s already been a great deal more drama than anyone could possibly wish for, most of which he’s managed to avoid. At least this time her presence hasn’t resulted in people spontaneously making out in the middle of the Promenade. Yet.

“In any case,” Garak continues, and the rest of the kanar in his glass seems to have disappeared. “I do not _want_ to spend my evening pestering the Constable for conversation, Doctor. There are far more agreeable ways to pass the time.”

“Such as?”

If Garak replies, Julian doesn’t catch it – at that moment, a sudden roar erupts at the closest dabo table, drowning everything else out. He sways and manages to stop himself from falling into Garak any further. The last time he saw Garak drinking here might’ve been years ago, but the two of them were in Quark’s just the other week, after the _incident,_ and Garak’s bright white shirt was becoming ruined by smears of blood, smears that marred the grey of his scaled skin. Right there on his neck, and Garak had looked so _good_ in 20th-century Earth clothes, so smart, so much better than these awful Cardassian fashions Julian isn’t educated enough to understand. Julian realises his fingers have found Garak’s throat, pressing against the place where the gunshot wound was that day. He hadn’t even seemed to feel the pain. Julian remembers his inexplicable smile, fond as they left the holosuite behind. He remembers-

Why is he touching Garak?

“Doctor?” Garak’s voice sounds a little strained, sort of dry and uncertain.

“Yes?”

“There i _sss_ no need for you to _sss_ pend the evening with me out of pity.” The hisses seem unintentional, and Garak winces on every one. Julian can’t help thinking it’s sort of sweet. Reptilian. Is this what Cardassians do when they’re drunk? He breaks out laughing and it must’ve been quite sudden because Garak jumps backwards in a kind of slow-motion, only just succeeding in righting himself in time. Julian’s hand slips from his throat to the front of his tunic and stays there, for some reason beyond his comprehension. It really is a weird thing to do.

“Garak,” he says, trying to sound serious, “I _enjoy_ talking to you. If I’d known you were here, I would’ve come found you _much_ sooner.” Garak still looks unconvinced. It hurts Julian’s heart to see him sitting there so absolutely… absolutely _miserable._ No one’s supposed to be like that at a party. He just wants to see Garak smile again, like he did in the holosuite when Julian gave his speech and destroyed the world, delighted and… impressed. “Garaaak,” he pleads. “Don’t be a grump.”

“I don’t know what you could _possibly_ mean, Doctor,” Garak replies, listing forward in his seat. “You’re such a frustrating man – do you know that? Entirely incorrigible.”

Julian blinks slowly. “Y-yes, I’ve been told. What’s it to you?”

“Oh,” Garak sighs, rolling his eyes back into his skull, “oh, my _dear_ doctor. It’s everything to me.”

That makes no sense at all. “All right. Well, I’m going to the bathroom for a minute.” He draws his hand from Garak’s chest slowly, feeling the fineness of the stitches beneath his fingers. Something about leaving Garak, even if only for the briefest moment, fills him with a cold dread. Looking directly into Garak’s eyes, he searches for a way to spit out the words he can feel on the tip of his tongue. It’s still taking a great deal of his willpower not to burst out into childish laughter, and impulse at odds with the heavy emotion in his heart. “Don’t you dare go anywhere while I’m gone,” he orders.

Garak nods. That’s enough for him.

All the way to the tucked-away bathroom in Quark’s, Julian tries to sort through his thoughts. They seem to be all over the place tonight. The kanar is beginning to hit home, making him feel like jelly all over. Wibbling and wobbling down the corridor. Struggling to hold onto any idea for more than a few seconds before it flies away. And Garak-

 _Garak_ is something else altogether. Julian usually avoids thinking about it. He always gets a headache.

Even though he trusts Garak not to betray his promise and run away, some irrational part of him keeps imagining returning to find the barstool abandoned, taken up by some other partygoer Julian couldn’t care less about, not when it’s _Garak_ he wants to talk to. He rushes on his way back, desperate to turn to the corner and be sure his Cardassian companion stayed. Is paranoia a side-effect of kanar in humans? He needs to get this energy out of his system, he needs…

“Doctor Bashir!”

Not that.

“Ah, er… hello,” he greets, meeting the startlingly dark gaze of none other than Lwaxana Troi herself – daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx and heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed – looking down at him from halfway up a spiral staircase. “Good evening.”

“Doctor, what a charming surprise to see you here!” Lwaxana exclaims, even though it really makes a lot more sense for Julian to be at a Starfleet party than her. “I meant to ask, may I call you Julian?”

“Oh, of course, ma’am,” he answers quickly. A pair of ensigns walking by give him funny looks, but it’s hard enough to just focus on what Lwaxana is saying to him without having to pay attention to anyone else.

“Now, _Julian,”_ she chides, “how many times do I have to tell you? It’s Lwaxana, or at least Mrs Troi!”

“My apologies,” he says. “I uh, was on my way somewhere, so if you don’t mind-”

Lwaxana claps her hands together and gives him a very suggestive wink. “Off to meet up with someone _special,_ hm? I can read it all over your thoughts!”

Oh, he _hates_ it how she does that. “No, actually, I was just going to talk with Garak, so…” He trails off, losing his train of thought. Someone special, she said? As in Garak, because he _was_ thinking about Garak just a moment ago, but he and Garak are _friends._ This is all getting too confusing. The room seems to sort of spin every time he blinks. It’s almost as if bits of him are strewn all over Quark’s and he’s desperately stumbling around trying to pick them all up. A funny thought. He bursts into uncontrolled laughter.

“Alcohol does marvellous things to the humanoid brain,” Lwaxana remarks loudly. “I’ve _always_ found it so… _fascinating._ Well, I must return to the holosuites! I have weddings to perform.”

He frowns. “Weddings?”

“Oh yes, haven’t you heard?” she asks. “I am a certified officiant in over one hundred cultures, after all. I must’ve caught your dear Captain Sisko at a good time, because he was _more_ than happy for me to take up the practice while I’m here. And what’s a better time to get married than a night of celebration and joy such as this?”

“I… suppose.”

“Don’t play coy,” she says. “You seem like a man of _adventure,_ Doctor – a man of spontaneity! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy a little bit of romance!”

He won’t. He can’t, actually – it would be a lie, and she would be able to tell. “I don’t have anyone to get married to,” he points out, holding the nearest piece of iron railing for support. He and Leeta are on a break, and besides, he doesn’t think she’d _want_ to get married to him right now. Or that he would want to marry her. And there’s no one else who’s single on the station who he knows well enough, anyway, so…

What the hell is he thinking? Can Lwaxana influence minds as well as read them?

“Just think,” Lwaxana insists, “it could be _such_ great fun! Now, I really must be going. Do think about what I’ve said, Julian, and come up to holosuite three if you find what you’re looking for!” Then she sweeps away up the staircase in a flutter of shiny bright pink fabric and golden glitter, calling for someone.

Julian casts his gaze across the crowded, raucous room. He sees a patch of green fabric tucked in between Starfleet blacks with red, yellow and blue and earthy Bajoran tones, hunched over at the bar. His heart skips a beat, something bubbling up like lemonade inside of him. That _incorrigible_ energy is returning. Or maybe it never quite left, instead building up beneath his skin like electricity, and he doesn’t know whether he was to laugh again or start running laps of Quark’s.

God, the kanar is _definitely_ getting to him now. He really shouldn’t have drunk it all at once. But it was disgusting, not something to be sipped and savoured. Stupid Garak with his Cardassian superiority in everything from drinking etiquette to life philosophy, his _oh Doctor you couldn’t possibly understand how deep and meaningful it all is with your silly little Federation brain._ Why can’t he just try to have _fun_ sometimes? Julian could show him a fun time, if only he’d let him. Julian could show him that it’s good to be silly sometimes. Silly enough to make random online purchases you forget until they show up weeks later, silly enough to get up and sing terribly in front of an entire room, silly enough to get married on a whim, because why not?

Marriage. Weddings make people happy, don’t they? Everyone loves a good wedding.

“Garak!” he yells as he approaches, moving as fast as he can without risking a fall. “Garak, it’s me!”

Garak spins around on his stool and views Julian through unfocused eyes, apparently onto another drink from the glass in his hand. That’s no good. What’s with all this drinking alone? It’s so… depressing. Well, if Garak’s depressed, he has just the right idea of something to cheer him up.

“Garak, you’ll never guess who I was just talking to,” he announces, pushing past some very confused looking civilian to get closer to the bar, to Garak. He hasn’t felt this excited about something since the _Julian Bashir, Secret Agent_ holoprogram from Felix first arrived.

“No, Doctor,” Garak replies slowly. “I don’t _sss_ uppose I will.”

“Lwaxana,” he says. “She told me she’s officiating weddings for anyone who wants one upstairs in the holosuite.”

“Oh, really? How po _sss_ itively charming.”

He nods enthusiastically, smiling. “It is, isn’t it? Garak, I… _I_ think we should get married.”

Garak jolts to attention. “You and er… who, precisely?”

“Me and _you,”_ he replies. “I think it would be fun.”

“You think it would be… fun?” Garak repeats in vague disbelief. “I m-mu _sst_ say, my dear doctor, that is one the mo _sst_ unexpected… unexpected, er, propo _sss_ als I have ever had the honour of receiving.”

“Really?” Julian asks, excitement growing. “So you agree? It would be fun?” He can’t quite explain why he wants this so much, but he just _knows_ he does, more than he’s wanted almost anything else in his life. Him and Garak, _married._ It’s not even funny but he laughs anyway, reaching out to touch the fabric of Garak’s sleeve.

“Doctor, you don’t think this is rather _sss_ udden?” Garak points out, trying to stand up and falling into Julian right away. Julian can smell his cologne again – the scent is addictive, reminding him of all his favourite places on Deep Space 9, filling his nose and cutting across the sting of alcohol in the air. He only just remembers in time that sniffing someone would be a weird thing to do. “I don’t believe you’ve expre _ssss_ ed much intere _ssst_ in matrimony before,” Garak continues as he struggles to stand on his two feet without bumping anyone else or knocking over one of the many glasses on the bar.

“Please?” Julian says, pouting. “I’m being serious. I really want to marry _someone,_ and you- and you-” _And that someone is you? And you are someone? And you are the only someone on this station, nay in the entire universe?_ “Do _you_ want to get married?”

“I will admit,” Garak remarks, “I have alway _ss_ had an interest in the concept-” He coughs, ducking out of the way as a bulky freighter captain muscles through to harangue one of the bartenders. Garak looks sort of embarrassed, like he’s just revealed some terrible secret. “However…” He does not finish his sentence.

“Then why not marry me? Now? Unless there’s somebody else…”

Garak chuckles. “My dear doctor, _really.”_ So, nobody else, then. At least, he thinks that’s what that means. It’s always a bit difficult to tell when it comes to Garak, Garak who’s holding him, he realises – nothing more than a light touch to Julian’s waist, but plenty to write home about. Garak _never_ seemed to touch him enough, not after they first knew each other, and he suddenly wonders how he managed it all those years, feeling so far away. “Is thi _sss_ wedding a true de _sss_ ire of yours?” Garak asks, blue eyes seeming to search him for an answer in the dimmed light of Quark’s. “A hidden _sss_ ecret of the real Julian Bashir?”

Well…” Julian frowns, trying to work out what he’s supposed to say to that. “If it was a secret, why would I tell you?”

“Hm.” Garak’s gaze flickers to the nearest spiral staircase leading up to the higher levels, where the holosuites lie. Julian is rocking back and forth on his feet, starting to wonder whether he should maybe have _one_ more drink. He’s half made up his mind when Garak sighs dramatically like someone’s just asked him to do them a great favour, drawing his attention in once again. “Very well, my dear,” he declares, “if it will make you _happy.”_

“It will,” Julian promises, attempting to contain some of his delight so Garak doesn’t think he’s too silly and change his mind. He can’t work out exactly how, but he’s surer than anything else in his life that it will. “Will it make _you_ happy, though?”

“Anything that brings you joy, Doctor, is pleasure enough for me.” Another confusing answer. But it’s a yes, and that’s enough for Julian. His heart jumps all over the place, leaping around like an excited puppy at prospect before them. He’s about to get _married,_ to _Garak._ He really always did want a wedding, one day, no matter what he told Miles all that time ago. And it’s pretty rare to find one free of charge. Acting on a sudden surge of energy, he flings himself forward and throws his arms around Garak’s neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. Garak’s body is a sturdy warmth against his own, responding at first with a little surprised stiffness that melts away into a fond chuckle as Julian squeezes harder and tucks his nose under Garak’s chin. Some sort of anxious heat is thrumming in his veins, an insistent urge to hurry in case anything happens to stop them.

“Come on,” Julian breathes, pulling away with what he’s certain is a very stupid grin on his face. “We should- Oh, wait! We should wear our tuxes – mine’s… my suit, it’s still at your shop, isn’t it? Can we go get them, _please?”_

Garak’s eyes are so bright, if still a little unfocused, and they remind Julian of the sky just after dawn. Pale, fiery blue, filled with promise for the future. It’s electrifying. And something about just the idea of saying, _my husband, Garak,_ is as addictive as the distinctive cologne that he wears. “I imagine it is to be an _Earth_ wedding, after all,” Garak replies, a touch of both the derogatory and the affectionate in his tone.

It’s all the incentive Julian needs to grab Garak’s hand and bolt for the door to Quark’s, stumbling and tripping the whole way. They’re both out of breath by the time they make it to Garak’s shop on the shadowy Promenade, window display showing a range beautiful gowns and suits with delicate embroidery that Julian has never quite comprehended the creation of. Garak finds both of their tuxedos from _Julian Bashir, Secret Agent_ in his workroom out the back and Julian struggles into one of the changing rooms to put it on. It fits differently to last time. Everything, from the trouser legs to the collar of his white shirt, matches his body shape down to the millimetre. He doesn’t have time to dwell on that, though – there are far more important things to focus on just now.

“Gar _aaak,”_ he complains loudly, stumbling back out into the shop. “Garak, I need your help.”

Garak is somehow already dressed, angles sharp and pretty textured white shirt crisp and without a single crease. Oh, how is he always so _perfect?_ Even drunk, it’s impossible for Julian to find fault.

“Doctor,” Garak says after a long pause. “Your shirt i _sss…”_

Julian looks down. Only two or three of his buttons managed to get done up in the fitting room somehow, revealing half his stomach and the defined line of his collarbone further up. “Huh, sorry,” he mutters, working with messy fingers to fix the mistake. He must’ve got too distracted with trying to tuck it into his pants to remember the smaller details. “It’s just- I can’t do up my _bow tie,”_ he explains as he stumbles around a mannequin towards Garak. “Need help.”

“Come here, then, Doctor,” Garak sighs. His fingers, though sloppier than their usual unmatched precision, make short work of the tie, and Julian wonders briefly where he learned to do it. Did he _really_ do all that research the other week just for the sake of barging in on Julian like that, tearing his attention away from anyone, any _thing_ else? Garak’s fingers pause for a moment against the tender skin of Julian’s throat, cool and intentional.

“I need shoes,” Julian murmurs.

Garak’s fingers slip away with a haunting lightness, sending a shiver down Julian’s spine. “Ah, yes,” he comments, glancing down. “That can be arranged.” And apparently it can be, because no sooner than Julian’s managed to drag his shoe size up from the depths of his disarrayed memory, Garak is passing him a pair of shiny black dress shoes that match his tux perfectly, so much nicer than the ones he replicated for himself when _Julian Bashir, Secret Agent_ first arrived.

“I’m so glad we’re getting married,” he says, turning to Garak in earnest.

“Are you, indeed?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Aren’t you?”

“More than I ought to be.”

Julian’s next breath comes out shaky, noticeable in the silence of the shop. In a strange way, he feels as though marrying Garak is his only chance, a sort of necessity that once achieved will explain everything. “Well, uh… let’s go tie the knot, then.”

The Promenade outside is dark and almost devoid of life, but to Julian is never feels like it’s ever been so thrumming with life.

“Tie… the knot?” Garak questions, seeming to finally process his words.

“It’s old Earth slang,” he explains. “You know, let’s get hitched.” He looks at Garak and catches him staring with such intensity it almost sends him tripping over a balustrade. Walking in a straight line is so _hard_ somehow and he keeps bumping into Garak as they go, eventually resorting to interlinking their arms instead to avoid any further clashes. Re-entering Quark’s – loud and bright and full of blazing energy – is like stepping back into the storm, adding to the exhilaration and spurning Julian on to sprint for a nearby dabo table. His heart is racing along out of control, as terrified and joyous as someone’s heart should be before their wedding.

“Leeta! Leeta over here!”

She turns around and spots him across the sea of partying patrons, waving a hand. They meet somewhere down the stairs between the dabo table and the bar, Garak still holding onto Julian’s arm for dear life. It’s so enrapturing to see him unrefined, devoid of his usual wall of professional charm. Julian wishes he could see him like this all the time.

“I’m getting married,” Julian announces loudly as Leeta meets them by a table stacked with used glasses.

She blinks in surprise, glancing between him and Garak. Then she breaks out into a smile. “Oh, really, Julian? That’s so sweet.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asks, suddenly nervous.

She laughs and shakes her head. “Of course not.”

“Good. Would you consider being my maid of honour, then?”

“Oh, well, sure,” she replies, shrugging in a flutter of silky pale green fabric. “Have you set a date for the wedding yet?”

Julian matches her smile, unable to help himself. “Yes. Right now. Lwaxana Troi is officiating them upstairs.” And it sounds so stupidly _natural_ and _normal,_ even though a small voice in the back of his head is pointing out this _is_ all rather sudden and all rather not-thought-through, that he finds himself leaning into Garak’s solid body again, desperate to be closer.

If it takes Leeta by surprise, she doesn’t show it – she only laughs and leans in to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Yes, Julian. So long as you promise to be a bridesmaid at mine. By now do you mean _now_ now, or…”

 _“Now_ now,” Julian affirms, squeezing Garak’s hand. He can’t bear the thought of any more hold-ups. Something about this all is just so perfect, like a dream he risks waking up from at any moment. “I’m not waiting a… a minute more.” The room sort of rocks back and forth a bit as he goes to move again. He wills himself to hold steady and keep walking.

“I believe that is your answer, my dear,” Garak tells Leeta rather distractedly, sounding as though off up in the clouds. Or the stars, as it may be.

The door to holosuite three is permanently unlocked tonight, and beyond it, Julian catches a glimpse of a pretty green park, speckled with patches of white flowers and night sky above a moody kind of dark navy-grey. He half expects it to be raining when the three of them step inside, but of course it isn’t – the scent of a storm is carried in the air while the ground stays dry, the gentle wind just the right place between warm and uncomfortably cool. The nearest place to the holosuite door is a white pavilion lit by hundreds of tiny lights, ten or so partygoers milling around in the glow. It’s beautiful. Leeta gives a wistful sigh, disappearing off to Julian’s right. _His_ eyes are fixed on the steps of the pavilion, where, resplendent in shocking pink and chatting loudly to what looks to be a Starfleet admiral in gold-lined red, is Lwaxana.

“Mrs Troi!” he calls, stumbling again in his haste. “Mrs Troi, I found someone to marry me!” He makes it to the base of the white steps huffing and more than a little nauseous, but it’s enough to see the spark in Lwaxana’s eye and feel that lightness bubble up in his chest again to make it worth it. He’s no sure how, but marrying Garak feels like everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever needed.

“How wonderful!” she exclaims, seeing Garak with no surprise at all. “And you’ve gone and put those lovely outfits of yours on – I suppose you’ll be wanting an era-appropriate ceremony, then, Doctor?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” he replies. He hadn’t really considered it. He was too distracted with thinking about how much he _wanted_ the wedding to imagine any of the details. But an old Earth-style ceremony would be nice. He’s pretty sure he can even remember how those are supposed to go, somewhere in his all-over-the-place brain. “Garak,” he says, turning to his husband-to-be and trying hard to focus. “You just stand here, all right?

“Whatever you _sss_ ay, my dear,” Garak tells him, staying at the base of the steps as Lwaxana ushers their unwitting wedding guests into line. Julian can’t recognise most of them – they’re not DS9 officers, at least, that admiral certainly isn’t. The little gathering of people somehow parts to make a path – an _aisle –_ leading up to the pavilion, and Julian scurries away to find his own place for a procession. That’s what they’re called, right? And where’s Leeta? He can’t get married-

“Julian, here,” Leeta gasps, hurrying up to him clutching a bundle of holoprogram white roses, stems smooth and devoid of any thorns. A bouquet. He laughs as he takes the arrangement into his hands, secretly thinking it does suit his outfit quite well. Leeta even plucks one of the smaller blooms to pin to the breast of his jacket, creamy white on midnight black. Something that _could_ vaguely be described as a wedding march begins to play over the holosuite computer, almost haunting in a bizarre way. Beautiful, but haunting. Carrying an air of mystery. Julian loves it. He loves everything just now. He loves this wedding, he loves this gorgeous garden, he loves Leeta as she takes his arm and tugs him forward towards the pavilion, he loves… He loves all of it.

Walking up the aisle feels like the best moment of his life. He couldn’t even explain why. It just does.

Garak turns to watch them approach, eyes wide and misty as Julian and Leeta struggle down between the two lines of random people. The stems of the holoprogram roses are sweaty his hands as Julian experiences a wave of mounting trepidation. The wedding music grows louder. Lwaxana Troi is saying something from where she stands halfway up the white steps, but he can’t hear what. Beyond the maddened roar of his mind, too many people are talking at once.

“Hush, all of you!” Lwaxana instructs, cutting through his oppressive brain fog, and miraculously, the tiny crowd goes quiet. “Well then, thank you,” she continues, huffing a little “All right, we’re all gathered here today, in the sight of your Bajoran Prophets and whoever else may be watching, to join together these two dear men – Doctor Bashir and Mister Garak – in marriage.” Someone in the congregation whistles and few more _ooh_ and _ahh._ Julian stares right into Garak’s lovely blue eyes and doesn’t look away. “Marriage is a wonderful thing,” she goes on. “You know, I’ve been married a few times myself, and _almost_ married at least twice that number, so I ought to know. And even if the way humans do it is _more_ than a little barbaric on occasion, even I must admit they are sincere. Cardassians are quite a similar matter. Now, do the two of you,” she says, addressing Julian and Garak more particularly, “have vows prepared?”

Julian doesn’t, but he nods anyway. Vows. Not a big deal to make up on the spot. It’s not as if people spend hours agonising over them for sober weddings. He clears his throat, ignores the attention of the crowd, and looks at Garak. “Garak. _Elim,”_ he says, speaking as seriously as he can. “I knew when we… when we met, for the first time, I knew we were going to have something special. Because you weren’t like anyone else I knew or had been friends with before. When I’m with you, I’m always me, which is I like. You’re so… so smart, and funny, and you always win at whatsitcalled- uh, kotra, be-because I don’t understand the rules and you won’t explain them because I think you like winning. That’s okay, though. And I’m so sorry I shot you the other week, even if you were being an idiot. I- I promise that I will always be there to help you, and I want you to know I’m really grateful you agreed to marry me, because you make me really happy. That’s all.” Clutching the rose bouquet to his right, Leeta _awws_ softly. Garak regards him with blank amazement. “Now it’s your turn,” he prompts.

“Well, I mu _ssst_ say, that’ _sss_ quite the declaration, my dear doctor,” Garak replies, blinking away some of his shock. “You continue to amaze me at every turn.” He clears his throat. “You are the bearer of _many_ admirable traits, Doctor, of course – beyond your remarkable intelligence, you endle _sssly_ impre _sss_ with your compassion and moral… moral…” He seems to search for the right word for a moment, the charming lilt of his voice even more exaggerated than usual, trickling through Julian’s head like honey. “Moral principle,” Garak finishes. “I can offer you, unfortunately, _few_ reassurances for the future, as these are uncertain times. However, my dear, you may be the person on this station with whom I share the least lies, which is a noteworthy achievement in itself.”

“Garak,” he says, sighing a bit. “That’s so… _sweet.”_

“Lovely, lovely,” Lwaxana says. “Now… the rings. We need rings!”

“Do we, indeed?” Garak remarks. “How very strange.”

“It’s tradition,” Julian replies under this breath, feeling a small piece of warm metal be pressed into his hand by God knows who, because everything’s just such a fuzz of colour and light and sound at this point, except for Garak, who stands in a strange flash of clarity before him. Julian really does wish he would wear human clothes more often. They make him feel as though he’s _won_ something, something sort of rare and precious he hardly ever gets to see.

“All right, then,” Lwaxana announces, ushering a rather discombobulated-looking lieutenant out of the way. The wedding seems to have got slightly off track, though Julian doesn’t quite mind – it means he just gets to stand there staring at Garak for longer, which is apparently all his intoxicated brain wants to do just now. “Well, let’s continue. How does it go again?” Lwaxana frowns for a moment. “Ah, yes, I remember. If anyone here can think of any reason why these two lovely men should _not_ be married today, speak now or forever hold your peace or something of that sort.”

No one objects, though one dabo girl who Julian faintly recognisescalls out something about getting on with it.

“These human weddings of yours are strange affairs,” Garak comments airily, just loud enough for Julian to hear as he examines the ring someone has graciously offered him. It’s silver and engraved with some kind of pattern Julian can’t make out from so far away. _My ring. I never thought I’d get to wear a wedding ring._ They’re not so in fashion, these days, at least not among Starfleet officers.

“Shame. I was almost hoping for a little excitement there,” Lwaxana laments. “A little drama to spice up the evening. But I suppose we’d best continue. Doctor Bashir, do you take this man to be your Lwaxana-wedded husband, in sickness and in health as long as you both shall live, etcetera, etcetera?”

Somehow, Julian has been waiting his whole life for this moment. Head swirling, he nods. “I do.” This is as good a time as any for the ring, then. He reaches over and gently tugs Garak’s hand from his side, focusing as hard as he can to get it right as he slips the ring onto the fourth finger of Garak’s left hand. It’s a surprisingly good fit, perhaps a size small but nothing unforgivable, and his heart clenches as Garak takes back his hand to look over the simple band of gold as if examining a stunning rarity.

“And Mister Garak,” Lwaxana continues in a voice that commands the attention of the entire holosuite, even those who hadn’t quite seemed to realise there was a wedding going on at all until now. “Mister Garak, do you take this fine young man to be your Lwaxana-wedded husband, to love and to cherish and so on as long as you both shall live?”

Garak regards him with a strange expression, one Julian’s not sure he’s ever noticed before. An unveiled focus, the kind an astrologist would use when looking upon the irreverent swirl of a new galaxy unwitnessed until now in all its brightly-coloured majesty and bands of glittering stars. “Well, I suppose I do,” he answers. Julian’s insides melt the moment the ring slides onto his finer – a cool weight, certain and entirely present in a world rather gone to confusion throughout the past few hours.

For a strange intermittent moment, the question of _why are we doing this again?_ flickers through his mind, but he discards it as quickly as it arrives. Who cares why they’re doing it? They are, and the only word that could describe how he feels just now is overjoyed. There’s too much inside, too much overwhelming lightness and dizzying warmth, too much happiness.

Lwaxana is speaking again. “You may now kiss, by the way,” she says. “Your _first_ kiss as a married couple. How charming.”

And it _is_ their first kiss – their first kiss ever, Julian realises, and he wonders why that is exactly. He’s sure there must’ve been times that he wanted to kiss Garak before. At least four or five. Then again, now is as perfect a time as any to start.

Julian steps forward to close the distance between them, tentatively raising his hand to cup the grey, scaled skin of Garak’s cheek. He’s afraid for a moment that Garak might pull away, but instead he feels himself be pulled closer by that gentle hand on his wait again, tender enough to rob his lungs of air. He meets Garak halfway. A little messily, at first, as Julian starts to laugh at the cheer of their little crowd. Garak’s movements are strong and certain, though, and the kiss is soft and tastes to Julian of sweet kanar beneath the surface. His skin is almost on fire, burning up with the terrifyingly beautiful heat of it all, Garak pulling away to look at him eye to eye with so much shocking, satisfied delight that he questions again whether this all could be a dream.

“With the power bestowed in me by the Federation and everyone else who has the sense to keep out of their _exhausting_ drama, I pronounce you legally married, husbands – all that. Now hurry along you two,” Lwaxana instructs. “I’ve got a darling pair of adorable Bajoran engineers waiting, so I need my lawn back. I will ensure Captain Sisko has your paperwork by morning. Homn, jot down a reminder – Doctor Bashir and Mister Garak, the tailor. I shan’t forget.”

Paperwork. So it really is… for real. He laughs again at the thought of what Sisko’s going to say when he reads that on his desk first thing tomorrow. Maybe it shouldn’t be so funny, but it is. Garak isn’t laughing as they walk back down the aisle arm-in-arm once more, Leeta calling some kind congratulation from the pavilion – he’s watching Julian with that damn _look_ again, pretty blue eyes a mystery in the pale light. Julian’s not sure where they’re walking to, but he can’t bear to stand still with the sparks that stare elicits inside of him. An iron arch stands at the edge of the open lawn, covered all over with twisting rose bushes and white blooms. Julian lets go of Garak just to get close enough to smell their beautiful fragrance, disarmingly _real_ despite being holoprogram replications of the real thing. The wind picks up and he takes in a deep breath of the cool air, promising rain on the horizon.

“I love this program,” he comments. “It’s so much better than the others. The people in the others aren’t real. You, though, my _dear Mister Garak,”_ he continues, turning to poke his brand-new husband teasingly in the chest, “are very real.” He accidentally staggers forward, back into Garak’s arms, but he doesn’t mind. “You know, this is the _best_ night of my life.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is,” he confirms, speech a little slurred. He buries his face in the collar of Garak’s dress shirt and sighs. “Thank you for agreeing to marry me. It was a lot of fun.” How did he keep himself from being so tactile with Garak before?

“You’re a married man, Doctor, and all you have to say is that this grand wedding of yours was _fun?”_ Garak asks.

Julian steps back to meet his eye again, curious. “Why? What else do you want me to say?”

“I…” Garak seems confused, maybe a bit concerned. There’s a stiffness to the way he holds himself Julian is sure wasn’t there before, a tension in his shoulders that from a distance could’ve been mistaken for decided ease. “I’m afraid I must leave you for a moment, my dear,” he says eventually. “There’s an urgent matter I mu _ssst_ attend to, a… a tailoring matter.”

“Oh? Don’t you want-”

But Garak is gone, disappearing through the rose-covered archway like lizard scared away from its warming place on a path by the thud of oncoming footsteps. Julian sways a little, momentarily lost, caught between the two trapezes.

“Garak, w-wait!”

When he stumbles around the corner into the hedgerow, Garak has disappeared entirely. He frowns. Why on earth would Garak just run off like that with an obvious lie of an explanation, unless…

Oh dear. He waits as lost as he can bear to sit still on the grass, just in case. _My God, Julian Bashir, you are the most ridiculously idiotic person to ever breathe oxygen. What did you think was going to happen? Did you really think-?_ His stomach drops in another wave of nausea and he closes his eyes to will it away, stuck in an uncomfortable sense of sudden consciousness. Goodness. He has _really_ gone and done it this time. Trudging back to the pavilion is a sorry affair. He finds Leeta still standing there close to the white steps, watching the next ceremony Lwaxana Troi has taken it upon herself to perform. The two Bajoran engineers, dressed in their uniform grey, appear very happy.

“Julian?” Leeta says as he approaches, brow furrowed between her dark eyes. “Where’s Garak?”

Julian looks down at the silver rings on his finger and feels a sinking feeling in his chest. _If it will make you happy._ He’s so incredibly stupid. “I don’t know,” he replies. “I seem to have lost him.”

*

“To be honest, Julian, I’m a bit confused,” Jadzia tells him.

“I didn’t understand a _word_ you just said,” Kira agrees, leaning across the table to examine his ring. “What’s the problem?”

He groans “The problem is,” he says, “that Garak only agreed because he felt sorry for me or something, wanted to _indulge_ my silly human emotions. He was trying to be nice, and I completely misread the situation and made him feel really uncomfortable – I mean, I _kissed_ him, Jadzia, _fully._ On the lips. Like we were… like we were…”

“Getting married?” Kira deadpans. “A couple?”

“Yes! And now he probably hates me and never wants to see me again, so there’s another friendship gone down the drain.”

“Look, am I getting this right?” Jadzia asks. “You _wanted_ to marry Garak, as in, you want to _be_ with Garak. But you never tried to tell him this until you already _were_ married, which you think he only did as an act of… friendship?”

Julian nods. “Yes. That’s just about it.”

“You think that _Garak,”_ she repeats, “entered into a meaningful social contract with you without even putting up an argument because he wanted to be _nice.”_

“Well, when you put it like that-”

“Julian, I don’t think there’s any other way _of_ putting it,” Jadzia points out, exasperated. “I can’t believe we can be talking about the same Garak here. I mean, do you think there’s _anyone_ else he’d just agree to do that with if he didn’t want it?”

“He was drunk,” Julian tries. Clearly, she doesn’t understand. I mean, reflecting on the whole thing, what other motivation could Garak possibly have had? It’s not as if he likes Julian… like that. Or maybe it’s all different with Cardassians, somehow. Who knows?

“Y’know what I think you should do?” Kira says, a bit louder than necessary despite the general thrumming background noise of Quark’s. _“I_ think you should talk to him. Instead of sitting here…” She frowns. “Worrying.”

“I’ve been _trying_ to talk to him ever since he ran away from me,” he replies. “But I don’t have the faintest idea where he could be, and he’s not picking up my calls.”

“Think, then,” Jadzia presses. “Where _would_ he be? You know him better than any of the rest of us do.”

Julian thinks. Garak is not in his shop – he checked there right away. There’s no way he’s walking all the way to Garak’s quarters just to find he’s not there. He’d probably end up falling down a turbolift shaft in his lingering drunkenness. Not in the bathroom, not at the bar, not in any of the holosuites. For once, he wishes this station wasn’t so _big._

“I suppose I could just find one of the station computers and ask it to tell me where he is,” he says glumly. He’s not sure why he didn’t think of that before. “Unless…” It is a thought. Very silly and sentimental, perhaps. But possible.

“Unless what?” Kira asks.

He stands up so fast he almost falls right back down again. “I’ve got to go,” he gasps, climbing over his chair with some difficulty. “Thank you so much, Jadzia, Kira. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Not sure what we did, but you’re welcome,” Kira mutters.

Jadzia only smiles on of her annoying, _try not to get into too much trouble_ smiles and winks. “Good luck.”

Julian doesn’t need luck. He needs words, and answers. And now, for the first time in hours, his head feel clear enough to find them. He pushes past people with hurried apologies to get out of Quark’s, making a turn down the Promenade towards his target. It’s a place he visits almost every day – most people who live on DS9 do, for its convenience and lack of high prices for underpaid Starfleet officers living beyond Earth’s moneyless paradise. He nearly thinks he must be being a bit ridiculous until he sees the unmistakable silhouette in the far corner. A figure, sitting with his back to Julian at a small table. The flowers sitting on the tables are yellow this week, rather than purple as they were that first time.

“There you are,” he says softly as he approaches. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Garak’s voice is flat, his words carefully considered as he replies. “I imagine you have.”

It’s funny coming from it at this angle. Julian walks around the table, but instead of sitting down, pulls his chair around to be closer to Garak. This isn’t some impersonal chat over lunch. He doesn’t know how to feel when he sees the simple gold ring is still on Garak’s finger, catching the faint light shining on the Promenade. He tries to ignore the way his heart skips with delight. It could mean anything. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be in here,” he murmurs, glancing about the silent, shadowy replimat.

For a long, rather painful moment, Garak does not reply. He refuses to meet Julian’s eye. “I’m afraid I must owe you an apology, Doctor,” he says stiffly. “I acted in a _most_ unprofessional manner this evening. I do hope I can be forgiven.”

The air is still and tense around them. “Forgiven for… what, exactly?”

“Now, my dear doctor, there’s no need to be so obtuse. I took advantage of your typically affectionate nature in an altered state to-”

“Hold on a minute – you took advantage of me, _how?”_ Julian interrupts, suddenly confused again. “I thought _I_ took advantage of _you._ Why did you say yes when I asked you to marry me?”

Garak answers as though doing so gives him a great deal of pain, though some of the tension has slipped for his shoulders. “You wanted _fun,_ Doctor, so I indulged myself by agreeing for the sake of your enjoyment. I believed – mistakenly, mind you – that I could… could _set aside_ my personal feelings on the matter. It became clear I could not.”

“Garak!” He yells so loudly Garak jumps in his seat and the table jumps forward an inch, scraping on the ground. “Do you mean to tell me you wanted to be my husband, for _real?_ As in, actually wanting to be with me. Romantically.”

“Unfortunately, there may be some truth to such an assertion.”

“It’s not unfortunate at all!” Julian laughs and throws his arms around Garak’s neck as he did earlier in Quark’s, on the edge of his seat to get closer. “I thought you were just trying to be nice by saying yes, I had no idea- Oh my God, why didn’t you just _tell_ me? It would’ve saved a good few hours of misery.”

“I… I _did_ tell you, Doctor,” Garak replies, sounding lost. “Perhaps my message was… misunderstood.”

“I think _more_ than one thing’s been misunderstood tonight, Garak,” he says, pulling back to see those blue eyes of his again. “The next time we get married, I think we’d both better not be so drunk.”

“The er… next time, you say?”

“Well, I feel like we _should_ have a second ceremony some time so all our friends can be there,” Julian jokes. “Not that I’m trying to pressure you at all,” he adds quickly. “All I’m trying to say is… maybe it’s not such an issue, if Lwaxana sends that paperwork in. At least not for the moment.”

“If you truly mean that…”

“I do,” Julian promises. “I absolutely do, and don’t you forget it.” Unable to help himself, he leans in and gives Garak a gentle kiss, coaxing him forward. It’s nice for them to be like this, here, where they first met. He smiles and lets the moment last. “Now,” he adds, “I think we should… get to bed. Do you, uh, know how to carry someone over the threshold bridal-style?”

“No, my dear,” Garak replies, eyeing him with a small smile. “Although I get the sense I may be about to find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> This one ended up a little bit of a mess because I wrote it in a ridiculous rush and got very distracted watching _Four Weddings and a Funeral_ along the way, oops. Still, I just adore writing fun fics like this, tbh. (Also no, I will _not_ apologise for implying lemonade is a carbonated drink. Sprite is lemonade folks! Sorry, make peace not war, I know.) As I say every time, thank you so much for reading!


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